Becoming Anya
by LuvPurple99
Summary: We know what happened to Anastasia 10 years after the murder of her family, but what about the time in between? How did Anastasia become Anya? Takes place the night of the murders up through the point of the beginning of the musical.
1. Chapter 1: The Shameful Task

**A/N:** Wow. It's been awhile since I have been on this site. Life got in the way and other things took priority. But I've had the writing bug recently, and I wanted to get back on here. So here I am with a new story. This is based off the _Anastasia_ Broadway musical. I have always loved the cartoon movie, ever since it was released, and I easily fell in love with the Broadway adaptation. I'm a history nerd, and the Romanovs captured my attention and imagination a long time ago. This story is an imagining of the in-between time from the show: the time between when the Romanovs were murdered and when Anya shows up in St. Petersburg (*ahem* I mean Leningrad) in 1928. We get a few glimpses and ideas about what this time is like in songs like "In My Dreams," but I wanted to try my hand at fully fleshing it out. Helping me explain how she got away is a half-OC: Gleb's father! Gleb mentions that his father is a part of the firing squad in the musical and that he "died of shame." So he plays a major role in the beginning of this story. I've given him a name and a story, but the fact that he exists goes fully to the creators of the _Anastasia_ musical. I take no credit for that. I will be switching between his and Anya's POVs for the beginning of the story. There will be a few references to song lyrics and plotlines from the musical.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Anya**_

_**July 17, 1918, 3:27am**_

"_Go! Run!"_

My heart pounds in my ears. It hurts to breathe.

I stumble.

I put my hand out to catch myself, but that makes the pain worse.

I fall to my knees, my arm wrapped around my midsection, my chin tucked close to my chest.

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts.

My head is pounding. My lungs are on fire. Everything hurts.

I can barely see through the sticky red screen in front of my eyes as I push myself up again.

I slowly limp deeper into the trees. My clothes feel heavy and weigh me down. Each step is agony. I smell mud and smoke and something I can't name. I taste metal.

I hear a hoarse, faint voice yelling in the distance.

"All loaded! Keep the truck moving!"

I stumble again.

This time I don't get up. This time I succumb to the pain and the darkness.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_**Comrade Viktor Vaganov**_

_**July 17, 1918, 1:37am**_

"Your friends have tried to save you. They have failed. We have resolved to shoot you."

My hands shake as I move to pull the trigger of the pistol. I aim at one of the young Grand Duchesses. My finger hovers above the trigger, but I cannot bring myself to shoot her. I hesitate for only a second, then shift my aim quickly to the tsar. Many of my comrades have the same idea. Several bullets ring out in the direction of the former emperor of Russia. Smoke and screams fill the small, concrete cellar. I hear one of the girls muttering a prayer.

More shots, more smoke. Someone to my right wretches and vomits onto the ground. The air is stifling, and we cannot see through the haze.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" I hear the voice of our leader, Yakov Yurovsky, ring through the room. A few more shots ring out, then the guns fall silent. We let the dust settle. When it does, my eyes take in a gruesome sight.

Several bloodied bodies litter the ground. Some lay lifeless, while a few of the girls cower in one of the corners. Whimpers are heard from their direction, and Yurovsky orders a few of the men to shoot them again.

More screams. More cries.

When the dust settles again, the girls in the corner are still alive. A knot forms in my stomach. _Please, oh please, do not make me shoot them_.

A few of the more zealous men dive forward with their bayonets, stabbing violently at the crumpled forms in the corners. We hear whimpers and cries, but – miraculously! – they are not yet dead. A few of the men mutter. _How can they still be alive? Perhaps this is a sign that they should be spared!_

But, no, that was not to be. Yurovsky orders a few men to shoot one more time, and the room falls silent.

When I left home this evening, pistol in hand, my little boy asked me where I was going. I shook my head, told him not to ask. I could not bring myself to tell him his father was going to commit murder.

We begin the gruesome work of loading the bodies into the truck. My heart feels tight in my chest, and I keep my mouth pressed in a line to show no emotion, though inside I am writhing with guilt.

Russia needed to change. The tsar deserved his fate for leading our country to ruin – perhaps even his wife. But… his children? They are innocent. They had no say in their father's rule, not even the young tsarevich Alexei. They did not deserve this.

But I cannot give voice to my guilt and my opinions. To do so would be to die myself.

I follow my orders and begin loading the truck.

_**Comrade Viktor Vagonov**_

_**July 17, 1918, 3:19am**_

The truck bounces slowly along the rutted and muddy ground. The stench of blood, sweat, and vomit is nearly intolerable. I was given the unfortunate duty of overseeing the "cargo" as we drive to our final destination. I hold a handkerchief to my nose to try to stifle the scent, but it's of little help. Suddenly, the truck gives a great jump, and a few of the bodies bounce out the back into the mud. We're stuck in a deep groove in the forest floor. I hear swearing from the cab of the truck.

"Sokolov and Vasiliev, help dig out the wheel! Comrade Vaganov, reload the cargo!" Yurovsky barks from the front of the truck. He will not dirty his own hands, but has us do it for him.

I jump down from my perch in the back of the truck. The former tsarevich and one of his sisters lay heaped in the mud. I pick up the boy first, his lifeless body unnaturally light in my arms, and place him as carefully as I can back into the truck. As I bend down again for the Grand Duchess, I hear a soft whimpering.

_No… Can she really still be alive?_

I gently roll over the bruised and bloodied body. Sure enough, the face of royalty – terrified, dirtied, but very much alive – stares back at me. A range of emotions twists my stomach into knots – confusion, relief, guilt, fear. What do I do with this child? I cannot - I will not - shoot her. But if I don't, someone else will.

I can't let that happen. It is becoming clear to me that God means for this dethroned Grand Duchess to live. I can't tell which daughter it is – there is too much blood and grime – but one of them shall survive.

Swiftly and silently, I help the girl stand. A low moan of pain escapes her lips, thankfully masked by the humming of the truck and the shouting of my comrades digging out the wheel. I half-guide, half-push her towards the darkest part of the woods surrounding us. She stumbles, and I catch her. I give her another light push.

"Go! Run!" I hiss in her ear. She seems dazed, but eventually stumbles forward. I watch for a moment as she fades into the darkness.

Quickly, I glance around to see if any of the others saw my treasonous act. Sokolov and Vasiliev are still digging out the wheel. Yurovsky is yelling at them from the cab. I lean on the back of the truck and bounce it once, trying to simulate another body being loaded back in.

"All loaded! Keep the truck moving!" I shout, climbing back onto my perch.

The truck lurches forward, and we continue towards our destination.


	2. Chapter 2: Call the Child Anya

**A/N: **I've had a decent amount of this story written for several months, so for now updates will probably be near-daily. I'm trying to challenge myself to write a little more each day. I tried to do some research to keep things at least somewhat historically accurate (when it comes to names, clothing, places, etc.), but I can't promise that everything is. If you can, drop a review and let me know how you like the story so far. I do appreciate them.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Anya**_

_**July 17, 1918, 7:56am**_

My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. I can tell I'm lying on something soft. I can't open my eyes, and everything sounds muffled.

"—find her?"

My heart pounds faster. I thought I was alone.

"—woods. Near the – House."

Two women whisper above me. With the ringing and pounding in my ears, I only make out bits and pieces of what they are saying.

"—see you?"

"No."

"They can't know – if they come asking – side of the road – snow."

"—found sewn in - ?"

"Hide – when she's ready."

"If they come – call her?"

"Call the child 'Anya.'"

Anya. Is that my name? I don't remember.

I want to hear more, but I'm pulled back into the void of sleep.

I'm in a hallway. It stretches in either direction beyond what I can see. Doors line the walls, but they're all barred. I begin walking towards one of them, but a harsh voice makes me jump back.

"_Off limits!"_

A light starts glowing at one end of the hallway. A deep, but gentle voice calls from the light.

"_Shvibzik, come here."_ Something about the voice makes me feel warm, and I begin to walk towards it.

"_Watch out, Malenkaya. Be wary of where you step." _This voice is female, gentle, but sounds heavy with worry. I pause.

"Wh-who are you? Where am I? _Who_ am I?" The light begins to dim. Suddenly I want nothing more than to join whoever was calling from it, and I run towards the fading glow.

"Wait! Don't leave without me!"

"_Anya. Anya."_

"Anya? Anya, wake up, dear."

This voice is also female, but it sounds much closer and much clearer than the others. It doesn't make me feel warm.

I'm too scared to open my eyes.

"Anya, child, you must wake up. You need to eat something."

Now that she mentions it, I can feel my stomach grumbling. I crack open one eye, and see a middle-aged woman wearing all white. Her weathered face contrasted against her pure white clothing makes her look a bit terrifying.

"There, now, dear. Everything's alright. Come, I'll help you sit up." She wraps an arm around my back, right under my shoulders, and slowly raises me up. Pain radiates in my ribs, and I groan.

"Katya, come help me," the woman commands. Her voice is firm and insistent, much different than the voice she directs at me. To my right, I see another woman hurrying towards my bedside. She is much younger than the first woman, and she keeps her eyes lowered, refusing to look into mine. Katya puts her right arm behind my back, bracing under my shoulders, and uses her left to adjust the pillows behind me. Slowly, they lower me back onto the soft mass now supporting my upper back and neck. The pain in my ribs begins to dull. Katya gives a slight bow and hurries away. She still has not looked me in the eyes.

I turn to the older woman. "Where am I?" I'm surprised by how hoarse and small my voice sounds.

The woman sits down on a low stool and reaches for a steaming bowl to her right. As she prepares a spoonful of the broth, she turns to look at me. "You are at a hospital, dear. You've been here for several days." She brings the spoon close to my mouth, and I slurp the liquid down. It feels nice and warm going down my throat.

Several spoonfuls later, I ask, "What happened to me?"

The woman breaks eye contact and looks down. Her face seems to pale a little. "We… we're not sure, dear. You were found on the side of a road and brought here. You have many injuries that we have been tending to."

I take another spoonful. I don't remember being on the side of a road. I don't remember how I got hurt.

I don't remember anything before I woke up here.

A shard of the conversation I heard earlier floats back to me. "Is my name Anya?"

The woman's face registers an emotion I can't identify. "You're unsure? Do you not remember?"

Shamefully, I lower my eyes. "I don't remember anything before waking up here."

The woman's face is sympathetic. "We have been calling you Anya, yes. Your… past is a mystery to us, too, my dear." She speaks slowly, as if she is considering her words very carefully.

I finish the broth, and the woman sets aside the bowl. She checks the bandages around my head.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"I am a nurse here. My name is Evgeniya. The other nurse you saw is Katya. She is young, but learning her trade well."

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"My! Aren't we eager to fly the coop! But you mustn't rush. Your injuries need time to heal. Do not worry. You are safe here for now."

I don't know why, but the fact that she added "for now" unnerves me. I don't comment on it, though, and look away from Evgeniya to inspect the room. It's a decent size and could easily hold four or five other patients, but I'm the only one in here.

Evgeniya notices me staring at the other empty beds and answers my unspoken question. "With the severity of your injuries, we felt it best that you have some privacy and quiet."

This answer seems much too rehearsed. I open my mouth, about to ask why she seems so nervous, when Evgeniya abruptly stands.

"Well, dear, I will let you get more rest. Either Katya or I will check on you in a few hours and bring you supper." She makes as if to bow, but seems to catch herself in the act. Instead, she leans over, pats my hand awkwardly, and turns and walks away.

I'm alone.

I don't like this feeling. My heart pounds, expecting someone to walk by my bed or start talking. It's a creepy, itchy feeling, being alone.

When my eyelids begin to grow heavy, I fall asleep.

XXXXXXXXXX

_**Comrade Viktor Vaganov**_

_**July 17, 1918, 5:43am**_

The truck lurches to a halt near an abandoned mine shaft. Several more of our comrades are here waiting for us. Yurovsky orders us to undress the bodies and dump them down the mineshaft. I fight to keep my stomach down as I remove one of the girl's bodices. Others are not as reserved. Several of my comrades are drunk – with alcohol, with glee, with power. They are eager to remove the girls' clothes.

"Diamonds!" someone screams. That's all it takes to whip the rest of the men into a frenzy. They tear and rip at the fabric of the fallen royals, desperate to share in the riches. Precious jewels are being stuffed into pockets. Fights are breaking out over who found what first.

A shot rings out. The men gradually fall silent, turning to face Yurovsky, pistol in hand, aimed at the sky.

"Any man found smuggling the contraband from the prisoners will be considered an enemy of the Soviet and shot on sight. Return the jewels to me. Now."

Reluctantly, the soldiers grumble, empty their pockets at Yurovsky's feet, and return to their task. We begin to throw the bodies down the shaft.

As my comrades unload the bodies, I begin to fear that someone will discover one is missing. Thankfully, they seem too engrossed in their complaints about the jewels and their repulsive behavior towards the tsarina's corpse to notice. When the truck is empty, a few men pour acid down the shaft in an effort the mangle the corpses and render them unrecognizable. It's not long before Yurovsky realizes just how shallow the shaft is – not even 10 feet deep. The water at the bottom does not cover the bodies as was hoped.

"Vaganov, Orlov, toss a few grenades down. See if that will help collapse the shaft and cover the prisoners." Comrade Orlov and I unclip the explosives and let them fall down the shaft. The ground rumbles with the power of the explosions, but the shaft holds strong. Frustrated, Yurovsky mutters under his breath. He converses with a few other higher-ranking officers.

We are informed that Yurovsky will return to gather further instructions from the Soviet and will take the jewels with him. Until he returns, we are required to stay at our posts. We are given orders to shoot on sight anyone who comes close that is not a part of our unit.

We watch Yurovsky's truck pull away and settle down to wait.

XXXXXXXXXX

_**Comrade Viktor Vaganov**_

_**July 18, 1918, 10:02pm**_

Yurovsky stands on the bed of a truck. Though the monarchy is dead, he has an imperial air about him. He relishes giving orders.

"The corpses will be removed from the shaft and transported to a more secure location. All men will be required to assist in the relocation." Yurovksy begins separating us into teams. Some of us are tasked with dredging up the corpses from the shaft. Others begin clearing a path for the trucks to move forward.

By the time the corpses are loaded again, it is well into the middle of the night. We are all exhausted. A fresh pack of soldiers shows up to relieve us. Those of us who have been present since the execution the night before are given leave to return home – many of us live in or near Ekaterinburg. We are given orders to rendezvous at the Ipatiev House in two days' time.

Exhausted, my comrades and I trudge back through the mud and forests. But I will not immediately return to my family. I wait for the others to veer off towards their homes before I return to the forest to search for the lost Grand Duchess.


	3. Chapter 3: Don't Tell a Soul

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Anya**_

_**July 18, 1918, 3:42pm**_

The sound of raindrops pattering against the grimy windowpane wakes me from my slumber. I have been sleeping a lot lately. Evgeniya tells me it's my body's way of healing. When I rest, it heals. She tells me I should try to get as much rest as I can so I can recover quickly.

The only problem is, when I sleep, the ghosts come out to play.

I am haunted every time I close my eyes by people I do not know. Sometimes I just hear voices. Other times I see shadows. Always I feel a longing to follow them. I haven't told Evgeniya about these dreams. I'm afraid of what she'll say, but mostly I'm afraid of what she _won't_ say.

She knows something about me. I can feel it. But she either can't or won't tell me, and I'm frightened of what the unspoken words will mean for me.

The door creaks open, and Katya enters carrying a tray containing bandages and broth. Her skirts swish as she makes her way towards my bed. Deftly, she places the tray on the small, worn table next to me and gently puts a hand to my forehead to check for a fever, removing her hand a few moments later. She spends a few minutes checking and changing bandages, then pulls up a stool and shyly begins to feed me the broth.

This is our routine. Katya the silent mouse cleans my wounds and brings me nourishment, but never once has she looked me in the eye or spoken a word to me.

It's not for a lack of trying. I try to tell jokes to make her laugh or ask her questions, but nothing works. She refuses to give in. At first, I thought she was a nose-to-the-grindstone, no-nonsense type - all work, no play. I am her patient and she is my nurse. But there have been a few times that my jokes make a smile tug at her lips. And she never rushes. She takes her time, makes sure I'm comfortable. If I was just a job to her, she would not linger as long as she does.

I think I intimidate her, but I don't know why.

_**Comrade Viktor Vaganov**_

_**July 19, 1918, 7:15am**_

I pace in the small waiting room I was placed in upon entering the hospital. I hope this doesn't take long. I only have a few hours before I need to meet my comrades at the Ipatiev House again.

I spent a good portion of the night combing the woods for the Grand Duchess before returning home to my family. My search was fruitless. I could barely sleep, not knowing what happened to her. Did one of my comrades find her? Did she manage to escape? Is she still lost in some unknown portion of the forest?

Luckily my wife took my restlessness as stress and guilt. We have spoken many times of our disdain for the monarchy, but neither she nor I believed the entire imperial family needed to die. My wife knows my heart. I keep nothing from her.

Except this.

I cannot risk her finding out what I did. If - God forbid - Yurovsky were to discover my subterfuge, she and my son must be able to deny all knowledge of my crime. They must be able to be held innocent of all wrongdoing against the Soviet.

When I couldn't find the princess in the forest, my last hope was to check the nearest hospital. I could only pray that God spared her.

Finally, the door creaks open again, and an older nurse enters the room. Apprehension and fear show plainly on her wrinkled face.

"Comrade, what can I do for you?" the nurse asks me.

"I'd like to know if you have a patient here - a young girl, most likely in very poor condition. She went missing the night before last."

The fear amplifies on her face. She wrings her hands and forces herself to meet my eyes. "No, comrade, no one like that resides here. We house only a few sick and frail persons."

"Are you sure? Her injuries would have been very severe. Surely -"

"No. No one here fits that description." Her words are clipped, rehearsed, rushed. Her eyes drift anywhere but mine. It's evident that she wants me to leave.

I try a different approach. "You do not understand the gravity of the situation. If I do not find her, someone else will, and then she will not be nearly as safe."

The nurse's eyes find mine again. Her hands stop wringing. She stands stock-still. "You are a friend of the Whites?"

I'm careful to choose my next words. "I am only a man who wishes to redeem himself from his past mistakes."

She considers me for a moment, then abruptly turns and motions me towards the door. We walk down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The nurse opens a door near the end of the corridor. We enter a small, cramped room. One side of the room contains 3 empty beds, their white sheets tucked neatly beneath the thin mattresses. Between each bed is a simple end table. The right side of the room mirrors the left: the same flat mattresses on rusty bed frames alternating between chipped end tables. The only difference is that the middle bed is occupied by a young, sleeping girl.

I halt only 3 feet into the room. A few days ago, I could not tell whose life depended on my actions in the woods. Now I am sure.

I am in the presence of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.

The nurse studies my face closely. She has has taken note of the recognition that registered on my face. She leans close to me.

"She does not remember," she whispers.

My stupor shatters, and I turn to look at her. "What do you mean? She does not remember how she was injured? Has she asked after the wellbeing of her family?"

The nurse shakes her head insistently. "No, comrade, she does not remember _anything_. She doesn't know who she is. As far as we can tell, she has no memory of her past."

I look back at the figure in the bed. Even with her body covered in blood, bruises, and bandages, she is regal. How can someone who possesses such a royal air not remember the power her family once held?

The nurse eyes me as I watch the sleeping princess, gauging my reaction and my thoughts.

"She can't know," I whisper, so quietly I can barely hear myself.

She turns her eyes back to her patient. "We know. For her, knowledge is death. Perhaps this way, she can have a chance at a normal, safe life." We stand in silence for a few moments more, then recede into the hallway once more. We walk slowly, whispering as we return to the front of the hospital.

"She must be moved, and soon. I can only hope that her absence among the bodies goes unnoticed, but in the event it does not, she must not be anywhere near Ekaterinburg."

The woman nods in understanding. "We have a sister parish in Perm. I can arrange for transport there as soon as this evening."

"Please, hurry. I couldn't live with myself if anything more happened to her."

We enter the waiting room again, where we stand, staring at each other. A quiet understanding passes between us. I bow slightly, and turn to leave.

"God be with you, comrade," the nurse calls after me.

I face her once more and give a sad smile. "May He be with us all."

_**Anya**_

_**July 19, 1918, 6:17pm**_

"Anya. Anya, dear, wake up. We must be going." Evgeniya gently shakes my shoulder.

"Going… going where?" My voice sounds groggy and small. I rub my eyes to get the sleep out of them.

Evgeniya starts pulling pieces of clothing from a cloth sack and laying them on the bed. "We are taking you to another hospital. There is too much unrest nearby. We worry for your safety." She waves to someone across the room, and Katya materializes to help me change the clothes I've been wearing since I arrived.

"Unrest?" I ask as Katya slowly helps me sit up. I wince from a sharp pain in my ribs. Worry creases Katya's forehead. "What's going on? Why isn't it safe here?"

A worried look passes between Evgeniya and Katya. "There have been… reports of explosions and gunshots nearby. We fear the war has reached our doorstep." Evgeniya unlaces my corset as Katya prepares a fresh one. They move slowly, gingerly helping me maneuver my limbs into each piece of the outfit, trying not to aggravate my injuries.

Finally, I am dressed, and Evgeniya sends Katya out of the room to meet our driver before turning back to me. She reaches into the folds of her uniform and produces a small, sparkling object.

My eyes widen. "Is that…?"

"A diamond, yes. A rip in the fabric revealed it had been sewn into your skirt when you arrived."

"But… how? Why was it hidden there?"

Evgeniya lowers her eyes, a sad expression passing over her features. "I do not know, child. But it was obviously a secret, and it must remain so. Do not tell a soul that you possess a thing of such value until you know that you must. You cannot trust anyone in these times we are in. You must keep it hidden until you find someone you can confide in." She slips the diamond into the palm of my hand and closes my fingers around it. It feels cool and foreign in my hand. I don't remember possessing such riches, but I do believe Evgeniya when she tells me how dangerous it could be if anyone found me with it. I slip the rock into my pocket until I can find a better hiding place later.

We sit in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say to each other. Part of me feels that Evgeniya knows more about my past than she is letting on. Part of me wants to scream at her to tell me what she knows.

But part of me is terrified to find out.


	4. Chapter 4: Shame and Honor

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Comrade Viktor Vaganov**_

_**July 19, 1918, 9:28pm**_

When I arrive at the House of Special Purpose, everyone else is already there. Tension hangs thick in the room. Men are huddle in small groups, mumbling amongst themselves. Yurovsky and another higher-ranked officer whisper with each other at the front of their room, their backs to the rest of the soldiers. We were supposed to be here at 9:30pm sharp, but it is obvious I am late.

I enter the small room, trying to ignore the stone of dread in the pit of stomach. I walk up to Yurovsky and give a stiff salute. "I apologize for my tardiness, comrade. I wanted to put my son to bed before I left."

Yurovsky says nothing, but shares a look with the officer next to him. The officer nods and walks away. Yurovsky waves me off to join the others. I slink away to a group near the far wall.

"Comrades!" Yurovsky booms. "As you know, we have completed our task of ridding our beloved Russia of its oppressors." Several cheers erupt in the room, but my voice does not join in.

Yurovsky raises his hands to quiet us. "Yes, the tsar has fallen. However, not everyone in his family has joined him."

The room falls completely silent. It's as if we are collectively holding our breath. My pulse pounds in my ears. My greatest fear is coming true.

Yurovsky begins to walk amongst the groups of men, his hands folded behind his back. "One body is missing. It seems one of the former Grand Duchesses is unaccounted for." He attempts to make eye contact with everyone he passes, searching for the guilty party.

"Indeed, one of the ladies has disappeared, as did one of you for several hours last night and this morning." Heads begin to turn as men look from one to another. Low murmurs emerge from the silence. I try to inch towards the door, but suddenly Yurovsky blocks my path.

"Comrade Vaganov, would you like to enlighten us on your whereabouts last night?"

How could he possibly know? I was very careful to hide the path I was taking. I thought I had been cautious…

"I… was with my family," I manage to get out, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.

Yurovsky raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Because I spoke to your wife. You did not return home for several hours after you were relieved last night, and you snuck away early this morning. In addition, one of your comrades saw you walking in a direction that would not lead you home last night."

My eyes dart over the groups of soldiers. Who saw me?

A fist comes flying towards my face. The force of the punch knocks be backwards. I stumble, holding my left cheek.

"Did you help the girl escape?" Yurovsky demands.

I hold my tongue. Yurovsky throws another blow, and I fall to the floor. He kicks me in the stomach, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"Did she escape?!" he booms. I cough, barely able to breathe let alone answer his question. Yurovsky kicks me again, and the officer from before appears by his side, handing him a pistol. He cocks the hammer and aims at my head.

"I will ask one more time. Is the princess alive?" His words a low, almost a growl. If I don't answer now, I will surely die.

"No! No… she was alive when I found her, but succumbed to her injuries soon after. I gave her a proper burial and returned home."

Yurovsky gives a smug smile and lowers the gun. "Where did you bury the body?"

I cough once more before I answer. "I tried to go back this morning to place an icon on the grave, but could not find it again. It was dark, I was exhausted, there were so many tracks in the mud, I could not remember which way I had gone."

Yurovsky turns his head, considering this. "It is clear you did not tell your wife. Otherwise I am sure she would have kept your secret. We will continue to make sure your family is well cared for and that your son does not follow in your footsteps."

My head swims from the pain and the pounding in my ears. What…?

"Your son will be raised to serve the Soviet, and you will die in shame."

My head snaps back from the impact of the bullet. My vision goes black, and a blinding, excruciating pain overtakes all my senses. I hear voices, surely reading my death sentence. I do not know what lie they will tell my wife, but whatever she is told will surely not be the truth. They do not want this slip-up to be made known. With my last moments, I can only hope that I have saved the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I do not regret what I did. I die not in shame, but in honor.

XXXXXXXXXX

_**Anya**_

_**July 20, 1918, 11:09am**_

We stopped at a small church late last night to rest from our journey. We still have a ways to go before we get to the sister parish in Perm Evgeniya was telling me about. No one will answer my questions, of which I have many. To get answers, I listen to their whispers when they think I'm asleep.

"My sister lives near the house where they were imprisoned. She told me she thought she heard gunfire the other night," one particularly gossipy woman shares with her companion one night.

"They say the soldiers have slowly been leaving. Perhaps the family has been moved?" replies another in a hushed voice. _Who are they talking about?_

"My husband says he heard it announced that the tsar was executed. The papers said the rest of the family was removed to a safe place."

"Do you believe that?"

"I'm not sure what I believe."

I gather from these piecemeal conversations every night that the ruler of the country, Tsar Nicholas II, was executed by the Bolsheviks. No one knows where his family is. They are either in hiding or dead - no one can agree on which fate they met. The Bolsheviks, I hear are ruthless, cruel people bent on destroying anything to do with the royals. These sentiments are whispered quietest of all - to be heard is to be killed. My hosts don't seem to particularly care for the royals, but they hate the Bolsheviks more. "Certainly," says the gossip, "the children didn't deserve the tsar's fate."

Every day we get closer to Perm. Every day there are more whispers, more rumors, more apprehension. My traveling companions are eager to get to our destination and far away from the unrest we apparently left. Every night, I hold my diamond in my hand and keep it close to my heart. I stare at it as if I can glean answers from its sparkling surface. I don't know why I had it in my clothing or where I got it from, but I know it holds a piece of my past, an important one. I just can't seem to unlock its secrets. When my eyes and mind tire, I replace the jewel back in its hiding place, a small pocket I created on the inside of my jacket, but I don't yet sleep. I try to stay awake as long as I can, listening to the whispers fade into the heavy breathing and snores of slumber. I fight to keep my eyes open and my mind alert.

Because when I sleep, when I let my guard down and let the exhaustion pull me into unconsciousness, that's when the screams start. That's when the shadows approach me from the dark corners of my mind that I can't seem to access when I am awake. They call to me, say things I can't understand. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they cry, many times they scream. When they do, I see fire and smoke and the shadows shatter into a million pieces. With a scream of my own, I wake up, suffocated with terror and a longing I can't describe and don't understand.

On these nights, when the shadows take me on a tour of their tragedies and sorrows, I lie awake and pray to God that he would take this plague from me. I beg him to let me remember, to let me forget, or to let me just slip away to the peaceful quiet of death. The women who travel with me always treat me like a child on these nights, cooing and stroking and trying to soothe my invisible fears. They say not to worry, that I am safe, that it was only a dream, that it isn't real.

But they're wrong. The shadows are real. And they are angry.

**A/N: **Thus ends the perspective of Comrade Viktor Vaganov. For now, we will only have Anya's perspective. Later, I may add in the perspective of another character you will meet in the next chapter. I hope you are all enjoying the story so far.


	5. Chapter 5: The Convent

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Anya**_

_**July 26, 1918, 1:12pm**_

We arrived in Perm after several days of traveling. The air at this new hospital was thick with tension and gossip. News had reached us this morning: when the White Army arrived at Ekaterinburg, they quickly found out that what the Bolsheviks said wasn't true. Tsar Nicholas II was not the only one executed. His entire family was murdered along with him. A man named Sokolov is running the investigation. This news saddened many. I don't remember anything from my past, but I do know I am Russian. I don't remember the imperial family, but people are saying that children were brutally murdered. The youngest, just shy of 14, was killed and tossed about like a rag doll, as if he were an animal. The visual this brings to mind makes bile rise in my throat. The shut my eyes tight, trying to dispel the horrid scene. I feel as if I can hear the gunshots and the screams, smell the smoke and the blood.

When I first heard the news, I fell into a fit. I could not get control of my wrenching sobs. The thought of it all - the unspeakable torture - was too much. I do not know how I got my injuries, but I feel as if I can understand their suffering. The nurses, surprised at my sudden outburst of emotion, ushered me into a small, private room to let me mourn for these people I do not remember, people I do not know.

Once I had regained my composure, I rejoin the group in the small dining room. The women watch me warily. The two gossips who had escorted me here had already left. I was alone again in a new group of strangers - strangers who, it would seem, could not keep their questioning gaze from the still-healing scars littering my exposed skin. Embarrassed, I cross my arms over my chest and wince. Even that small action still rouses sharp pains in my body. I look anywhere but at the faces of the nurses before me.

Finally, one of them rises and speaks. "Hello, Anya. My name is Sister Izolda. I am the abbess of the local parish here in Perm. This hospital is one of our missions. You will be welcome here for as long as you need."

Sister Izolda gestures to the four women sitting at the table with her. "These are my sisters. Sister Kristina, Sister Olesya, Sister Lidiya, and Malvina. Malvina is not officially part of our sisterhood, but we welcome her help here anyway."

I let my bruised eyes sweep over each woman in turn. Kristina has piercing green eyes that pass over the bandages on my head. Dark, curly hair peeks out from beneath the black veil covering her head. Her skin is like porcelain, and she has a beautiful face. Based on her age, I would guess she is a novice nun. Olesya is older, but not quite as old as Evgeniya was. The skin on her face is just started to show signs of aging; she has wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that tell me she is a kind woman who shows her smile easily. Dark spots mark her skin here and there. Her eyes are a light blue-gray, but they radiate warmth.

Lidiya appears just the opposite. Her dark eyes are sharp as they take in the deep slashes just below my collarbone. Her composure does not give off an air of welcome, but of shrewdness. She is a ruthless woman, I can tell: she expects you to do your job and do it right. She expects obedience. Next to her sits the only woman (girl, really), who does not wear the nuns' uniform: Malvina.

Malvina appears to be close to my age. But where I have dark blonde hair, hers is a fiery red. A golden halo seems to glow around her head, a result of the beam of sunlight coming in through the dingy window. Her eyes are a clear, deep blue. They hold a hint curiosity and concern at the ghastly sight of my injuries. Her mouth seems to constantly hold a slight smirk, as if she is always engaged in some sort of mischief.

"Sister Evgeniya tells me you have suffered great injuries. It seems they are healing well. After a few more days' rest, we will introduce you to the work we do here. For now, dear, please join us for luncheon." Sister Izolda sweeps back to her chair. Olesya gestures for me to sit next to her in the one empty spot at the table. Tentatively, I take the seat, my arms still crossed in front of me.

As Sister Izolda says grace over the meager meal laid out in front of us, I catch Malvina peeking up at me through her long eyelashes. When my gaze meets hers, she quickly snaps her eyes back down. The prayer finishes, and the nuns begin to pass around the stale bread and thick soup that comprises our lunch. I eat silently, choosing to observe my new companions. This is easy. They direct no questions towards me. In fact, they seem to be taking pains to ignore the presence of the mysterious, injured stranger that has come to stay with them. Every now and then, though, I catch Malvina staring at me.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It is early evening when I return to the chamber the abbess assigned me to. The room's furnishings are few, but comfortable and welcoming. The small bed is pushed into one corner. The room's one window hangs just above the foot of the bed. An end table sits next to the bed, its one drawer containing a single Bible. A chest sits at the foot of the bed, with a dresser against the wall opposite the bed. A single wooden chair occupies one corner. A cross hangs above the bed, and a portrait of a woman hangs on the wall above the dresser.

"That's Saint Juliana of Lazarevo." I jump at the voice suddenly shattering the quiet of the room. I turn, and Malvina stands in the doorway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Malvina bows her head sheepishly. "I just wanted to make sure you settled in alright."

I look at the floor and clasp my hands together in front of me. "As well as can be expected, thank you. You are kind to welcome me here." An awkward silence fills the room.

"Why is there a picture of Juliana of Lazarevo in here?" I ask.

Malvina moves to sit on the bed. She crosses her legs on the mattress as if we are old friends chatting about the day's gossip. "She's the patron saint of our parish. She lived a life in service to the poor and needy, and so shall we. Or at least, we try. Well, _I _try. The others are much better at sticking to a life of service than I am."

I stare at her, shocked at how familiar she is treating me. Malvina must sense my awe, because she smiles and says, "I'm Malvina, like Sister Izolda said, but please call me Malvi. I like it so much better. Malvina sounds so formal." She makes a face as if she tastes something sour and sticks her tongue out.

"I'm Anya," I reply, not sure what else to add. Malvi's eyes lost their smile and swept over my bruises and gashes.

"Um… So, how did you get those? I mean, what happened to you?" she asks, nervously wringing her hands together.

I avert my eyes. "I, um… I don't know."

Silence deafens the room again. Malvina seems like she wants to ask something else, but decides against it, reclothing her face with her mischievous smile instead. "So what do you want to know about this place? I'm at your service." She gives a fake bow.

My mind flashes to the other nuns. "What can you tell me about the others? How long have they been here?"

"Sister Kristina is the youngest - well, besides you and me. She's 26. Her father wanted her to marry some rich man in St. Petersburg, but after the Revolution started, they thought it would be safer if she came here. She was just initiated a few months ago. Sister Lydia is the next oldest - she's 37. She's a sour old woman who never lets anyone have any fun." Malvina stuck her tongue out at the thought. "Rules, rules, rules; pray, pray, pray. That's all she cares about. I get in trouble a lot because of her, so if I were you, I'd stay clear of her if you can."

Malvina puts her finger to her chin in thought. "Let's see, next is Sister Olesya. She's the oldest and the nicest. She's like everyone's grandmother. She's been here the longest too. She could have been the abbess, but she didn't want to. She likes the duties she has now. Sister Izolda is a great abbess, though. She's strict without being mean. She keeps everyone organized and focused on our mission here: to help the poor and needy and devote our lives to God."

I can't stop myself from asking my next question. "How come you don't wear the nun's habit?"

Malvi laughs. "Because I'm not a nun. I tried the chaste, solemn, convent life, but I just wasn't cut out for it. I love God, but I also love flirting with boys. Sister Izolda let me stay here to help since my family is gone."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Malvina waves her hand dismissively. "Don't be. They died for believing in what's right. It's hard not having them here, but I'm proud of what they stood for. That's why I came here in the first place, actually. My father wanted to keep me safe from the riots and fighting. My brother Luka was in the army during the war, but we're not sure what happened to him. We haven't heard from him in a few years."

My head is spinning. Malvi certainly loves to talk. Suddenly, she springs off the bed and heads towards the door.

"I will let you settle in. We have evening prayers at 9 in the chapel. I hope you join us." She begins to exit the room, then stops, her right hand resting on the door frame. When she turns to face me again, her smile is gone, and the mischief in her eyes has been replaced by sadness. "I'm sorry about-" She pauses, reconsidering what she was about to say. "About what happened to you, whatever that was. I hope you can feel safe here with us." Then she flees the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_**Malvina**_

_**July 26, 1918, 7:18pm**_

_Stupid, Malvina, stupid, stupid, STUPID!_ I cannot believe I almost said that. I would have ruined everything. I would have put everyone in danger - especially Anya.

"_I'm sorry about what happened to your family." _That would have raised more questions, questions I don't know how to answer. It was made very clear to me that no one can know about what happened that night - not even Anya. _Especially_ not Anya. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

_July 26, 1918, 6:11pm_

_I knock tentatively on Sister Izolda's door._

"_Come in."_

_I enter, closing the door quietly behind me. "Sister, may I speak with you?"_

_Sister Izolda looks up from her book of prayer. "Of course, child. What is it?"_

_I wring my hands nervously, unsure how to broach the subject. "It's about Anya… She looks so familiar." Sister Izolda visibly tenses. "I used to see photos of the imperial family in the papers Father brought home. She looks just like Grand-"_

"_Shh!" Sister Izolda hushes me sharply and rushes to the door. She opens it a crack, listens intently, looks both ways down the hallway, then closes it. She turns to face me again, a fierce look on her face I have never seen before. "It is dangerous to say such things, Malvina."_

_I take my voice down a notch. "But I know how you feel. I've heard the rumors. I know what fate befell the royals. But I am asking you now to tell me the truth: Did one get away?"_

_Sister Izolda takes in my face, my composure. She knows where my loyalties lie. She knows I am not asking to bring harm upon anyone. Finally, she speaks just one simple word._

"_Yes."_

_Relief floods through me. I revered the royals. My family and I always have. My mother and father died defending their good names and divine right to rule. My brother served in the tsar's army in the war. When I heard about Ekaterinburg, I was devastated. To know that one is safe…_

"_But she does not know." Sister Izolda's words break me out of my reverie._

"_What do you mean?" I ask, stunned._

"_She does not remember. Not who she is, not what happened, not her family. She knows nothing of her past. And it must stay that way. She was transported here for safekeeping. The Reds will surely be looking for her, and the farther away she is, the better. We can only hope that others are not as keen as you." Sister Izolda grabs my hands and leads me to sit. "And now that you are privy to this information, I need your help. You must help Anya. Help her learn our ways here. Help her blend in. Help keep her hidden. Help keep her safe."_

"_Of course, Sister. I am honored," I whisper breathlessly. _

_Sister Izolda gives a small smile. "I know how good you are at diverting attention from your mischief. Perhaps God has meant for you to be with us so you can use those talents to help protect Anya."_

"_I promise, Sister, I will do my best to let no harm or suspicion befall her."_

I had promised earlier that I would keep Anya unaware of her past, that I would help divert others' attentions and suspicions. My task is simple, yet daunting. Honorable, yet grave.

I have become the guardian of Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaevna Romanov. And no one can know she yet exists.

**A/N:** One of the major plot holes I saw in both the movie and Broadways show was the fact that no one seemed to recognize Anya. With the Romanovs being the most photographed royals in the world at the time, that seemed nearly impossible. So that's why I had Malvina recognizing her. It seems more plausible to have people recognize her and work hard to help keep her blended in and hidden. Hope you are all enjoying the story so far.


	6. Chapter 6: Learn to Do It

**A/N: **Sorry about the long wait for the new chapter. Life has been very busy this summer. But here is the next chapter. We'll hear more about Malvina and Anya's life at the convent.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from _Anastasia the Musical_. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

_**Malvina**_

_**August 2, 1918, 9:02pm**_

I close the door to Sister Izolda's personal study. She invites me to sit, and I do. She hands me a cup of tea as she sits across from me.

"I have news from our friends in Petrograd and Ekaterinburg," Sister Izolda says as she brings the teacup to her lips. I place my cup on its saucer, setting it on the small table beside me. I lean forward, rapt and eager for news.

"The Whites have been driven out of Ekaterinburg. They were… unable to finish the investigation. Rumors of the imperial family's fate have been spreading like wildfire. The Reds are not eager to confirm or deny them. They know the public would look poorly on them if they admitted to the murder of innocent children. So they say nothing. In fact, they seem eager to put the rumors to rest." Sister Izolda gives me a meaningful look.

"So, what does that mean?" I ask.

"It means that they cannot ask the public for help searching for a missing princess if they are unwilling to admit there _is_ a missing princess. Perhaps they will still search in secret, but for the time being, no one is looking for her."

I cross myself, praising God for this mercy. But Sister Izolda is not finished.

"This does not mean we can be careless, child. She still must not know about her past, and we must still keep her hidden. You know as well as I that there are many anti-imperialists around. Our own Sister Lidiya did not favor the tsar and his family. We must still be as cautious as ever. Her wounds are nearly healed enough that she begin performing small duties. I would like you to teach her the chores you perform in the convent. She may not go into town quite yet; she is still too recognizable. Keep her away from Sister Lidiya, if you can. Help her blend in to the background. If you recognized her, others may as well."

I nod. "I will do as asked."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_**Anya**_

_**August 3, 1918, 6:17am**_

Images fade in and out. A muddy floor. White-washed windows. A damp cellar. The shadows of three girls huddle together, giggling, then disappear into a room. Another shadow appears down the hallway – a young boy. He walks slowly towards me.

"Why did you leave us?" His voice echoes down the hall, surrounding me.

"Wh-what? Who are you?" I ask.

"We were supposed to stick together. You promised!" The boy stamps his foot, then runs in the opposite direction. His footsteps grow louder, louder, until they become deafening cracks and booms. The giggling turns to screams. I see flashes of fire from every room, and I cover my ears to drown out the chaos.

"Why did you leave us?

I jerk awake, that haunting voice still echoing in my mind. These dreams have plagued me every night since I was found, and I don't know why. I haven't told anyone about them – not Sister Izolda, not even Malvina, who has become my closest friend.

I run my hands down the length of my face and through my hair, trying to wipe away the memory of the shadows and their screams. A knock sounds at my door, and Malvina enters.

"Anya! You're awake! Good. Sister Izolda asked me to start having you help me with my duties around the convent. We can start after morning prayers." Malvi comes to sit next to me on my bed, and frowns at me.

"Are you alright? You look frightened – like you've seen a ghost."

I give a small smile. "I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

Malvina stares at me for a moment, curiosity etched in her features. Then, as quickly as it arrived, it's gone, and she smiles again. "Well, I thought we'd try a new hairstyle today. No offense, Anya, but you could do with being a bit vainer about your looks." She winks at me, and I know she doesn't mean it as an insult. I let Malvi toy with my hair, and sit obediently as she twists the front into a sort of braided headband.

"There!" Malvi leads me to a mirror, pleased with her work. I turn my head this way and that, admiring the new style.

"I like it!" I proclaim. Malvina waits outside as I dress, then we walk to the chapel together. We always sit in the back so we don't disturb the nuns in their prayer and ritual.

Since I was found, I have taken comfort in religion and these small moments with God. I get the feeling I was quite pious in my past life. It's strange, yet very soothing, to have this constant between my old and new life. God was present there, and I feel His presence with me now.

If only God would grant me remembrance of who I was and where I came from, perhaps I could know where I will go.

When the service ends, Malvina pulls me quickly out of the chapel before the nuns pass. She does this every day, but instead of leading me to steal and extra helping of bread from breakfast like usual, she leads me to a room near the back of the convent filled with boxes of clothing.

"This is where we keep the donations we receive. Most of it is clothing for babies. The local women sew simple garments for the poor and the orphaned. My job – or should I say, _our_ job – is to sort through them and put together the packages that are currently needed," Malvina explains.

We spend the next few hours sorting through clothing and gossiping. Malvina tells me about her family, about growing up nearby, and about the ins and outs of the convent. She tells me about the locals, and the hardships that have plagued the country for several years. It's like she is trying to help fill in the gaps of my memory, to jog some sort of recognition.

But it doesn't help. I am still in the dark, and the shadows still live in the deep corners of my mind.


End file.
